Among these
was to be numbered a manuscript containing memoirs of his own life.
The narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but
neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the author.
Its style had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The great
variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together with
their intrinsic importance as descriptive of human manners and
passions, made it the most useful book in my collection. It was
late: but, being sensible of no inclination to sleep, I resolved to
betake myself to the perusal of it.
To do this, it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long
since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon
myself. A lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be
found in the kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to repair; but
the light was of use merely to enable me to read the book. I knew
the shelf and the spot where it stood. Whether I took down the
book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, appeared to be a
matter of no moment. The latter was preferred, and, leaving my
seat, I approached the closet in which, as I mentioned formerly, my
books and papers were deposited.
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